


Something, Anything

by battle_cat



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mid-Canon, Missing Scene, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 23:06:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10581363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battle_cat/pseuds/battle_cat
Summary: She’s never fucked a man just because she wanted to. But she’s already trusted him with her Rig, her mission and her life, and he’s leaving in the morning, so when the hell will she get another chance?





	

**Author's Note:**

> More of a what-if than an actual headcanon since I [already have one of those](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7221424), but fun to write.

She screams until she feels hollow, on her knees in the sand at the edge of the place that used to be home.

Later, after they talk and talk in circles and finally choose the salt, after he says he isn’t going with them (she only realizes after he refuses how much she’d hoped), she walks around to the side of the Rig facing away from the camp and sinks down against the front wheel.

Not to sleep—she has no illusions of that. Just to be…away. From all of them. The girls, who put so much faith in her finding a place that turned out to be broken and dead; the War Boy, who reminds her too much of her sacrificed crew; the last of her kin, longing for a daughter who was lost long ago.

She’s exhausted, and she aches. The nitro boost of adrenaline from two days and a night of road war is finally sputtering out, every scrape and bruise making itself felt. The salt keeps drawing her gaze, a forbidding expanse she can’t help measuring in days of dwindling supplies. It’s cold on this side of the Rig, the blanket around her shoulders scant protection against the night chill. But she can’t bring herself to join the warm huddle of bodies around the fire, Wives nestled among Mothers like they’d been part of the tribe all their lives.

She is somehow not surprised when he comes round the front of the Rig. Neither of them says a word, and after a minute he sits down next to her against the tire.

“It’s a shit plan,” she says after a length of silence. “I know that.”

He hums, neither agreeing nor contradicting, and says nothing more.

“I really thought…it would still be there.” She’s not sure she even meant to say it out loud. Her voice breaks on the last word and she has to swallow hard and quickly.

He makes another noise, and in the moonlight she sees his hand clench briefly against his thigh. After a moment he reaches out and puts it on her knee, not squeezing or stroking, just a warm, steady weight. It twists something sharp inside her and she can’t decide if she wants to pull away or if she wants more of it.

She concentrates on releasing the writhing breath inside her without it turning into a sob.

She slips her hand out from under the blanket and lays it on top of his. It’s his uninjured hand, the skin rough and weathered like hers, calluses and scarred knuckles. She feels just the slightest flinch run through him when her fingers curl around the back of his palm, as if he’s willing himself not to pull away. She can hear his exhale when she gives his hand a gentle squeeze.

The sharp thing inside her is clawing at her lungs and she needs something, anything else to feel.

She moves without thinking, levering up on her knees to swing a leg over his hips, the blanket fallen open around her shoulders and her face half an inch from his. She feels him startle at the unexpected closeness, reflexes barely contained, and before she can lose her nerve she leans in and brushes her lips against his.

He goes stock still underneath her. When she pulls back enough to see his face his eyes are wide and his forehead bunched up. But he hasn’t made a move to push her away.

“Is this okay?”

He nods, silent but immediate.

She leans in again and this time his lips part under hers, a hot rush of breath into her mouth. They’re both tentative at first, exploring how they fit together, and then like tumbling down a dune they’re on top of each other, her tongue in his mouth, his arm wrapped tight around her back. He tastes like salt and dust and this close he fucking _reeks_ of sour sweat but she finds she doesn’t care. The heat of being close to him is intoxicating, the dig of his fingers into her back and the scratch of his stubble against her chin. It’s something different to feel. Something that doesn’t hurt.

Now that they’ve begun he seems just as needy as she is, his breath coming in pants against her face. She twines her fingers into his hair (gods, it’s fucking filthy); thinks nothing of letting her head tip back for him to suck a searing line down her throat, teeth scraping not enough to leave a mark but enough to make her shiver to her core. There’s a sharp pulse of arousal between her legs and she can’t remember the last time she felt _that;_ if she has ever felt it with a man. She’s not sure when her hips started moving but she’s grinding against him, his hand on her ass to keep her pressed close while they kiss and kiss and kiss.

She can’t even say for sure why she is doing this, other than that it feels good, and she wants to, and out of all the things that she wants, maybe it’s the one thing she can have.

His dick is growing hard in his pants. She didn’t have much of a plan when she climbed into his lap but she thinks about fucking him and it sends a flare of heat through her. She’s never fucked a man just because she wanted to. But she’s already trusted him with her Rig, her mission and her life, and he’s leaving in the morning, so when the hell will she get another chance?

When she rocks down firmly against his lap he makes an overwhelmed little grunt. In the moonlight his eyes are wide and dark; his mouth wet from kissing.

“Can we?” she breathes, rutting her hips against him again so her meaning is unmistakable. “I mean. Do you want…?”

He closes his eyes for a moment, something inscrutable twitching over his face. Nods.

There’s nowhere to go that’s less exposed; even climbing into the Rig will make noise. She spreads the blanket out on the sand and they fall onto it, both of them clumsy with want. There’s a jumble of dealing with belts and fastenings, shoving down leathers and shuffling into a position that will work. He ends up ducking between her legs, her pants bunched up somewhere around her ankles.

He leans down and presses a hot kiss to the inside of her thigh, licking and nuzzling at the tender flesh there as if there’s some point in drawing this out.

“Are you gonna fuck me or are you gonna keep poking around down there?” She hears a muffled huff that she thinks might be his version of a laugh.

He slides up, weight balanced on his elbows, moving carefully to spare the hand wrapped in the strip of bandage cloth. He reaches down and then she feels the head of his cock slide and press against her opening.

She’s wet enough to be getting on with, and he’s…average-sized as far as she can tell, but it’s been a long time since she had anything inside her. The stretch when he pushes in is uncomfortable enough to make her tense up beneath him.

“Hey,” he murmurs when she fails to stifle a little gasp. She realizes she’s closed her eyes; opens them to see him looking down at her with a frown of concern. “Okay?”

“Just. Give me a minute.” She closes her eyes again, hooks her legs around his hips because she wants this, dammit, tries to remember how to make her muscles relax, she used to know how to do this…

“Hey.” His thumb is stroking her temple, a simple repeated motion she lets herself focus on. She breathes, imagines the tension leeching out of her onto the sand, and gradually the discomfort wanes.

She opens her eyes to see sweat beaded on his brow. She’d been focusing on herself, but he must desperately want to move. She wonders if it’s been a long time for him too.

“Now. Move now.”

The first slide out and slow push in leaves her breathless. It’s intense when he bottoms out inside her, but it doesn’t hurt. His breath is shaky, gaze not quite meeting hers. “Yes,” she reassures him, and he speeds up a little.

She hitches her legs up a little higher, wrapping around his waist. It changes the angle of his cock inside her just slightly and suddenly the next thrust is _electric._ A desperate _Ohh_ slips out of her before she can stifle it, and he makes some kind of rumbling noise in return. “Yes—yes.” She can barely manage a whisper between the short thrusts of his hips, but she wraps her legs tight around him, hooks her shortened arm over the back of his neck to pull him down heavy on top of her, his breath ragged against her shoulder.

She would have been satisfied with something that didn’t hurt, a momentary distraction of heat and friction and closeness. But fuck, this actually feels _good._ Her hips rock up to meet him, finding the angle that sends a jolt of pleasure down to her toes. 

In between thrusts she works her hand in between them, knuckles brushing against the flushed skin of his lower belly. She doesn’t bother teasing herself, rubs hard, fast circles over her clit, and it takes hardly any time at all before she’s on the verge of coming. She buries her moans in the dusty collar of his jacket as the orgasm shudders through her body. He reacts to it with his own low grunt of pleasure, hips suddenly stuttering hard a second before he pulls out of her and comes in a hot spurt that lands on her thigh and the blanket beneath it.

Neither of them move, panting damp breath against each other’s skin. She feels drunk with pleasure, loose-limbed and floaty, the aches and pains of the road war dialed down to almost nothing. She gazes up at the endless stars and has to smile at the absurdity of it, lying on her back in the desert with her legs spread for a man she’d been trying to kill two days ago, just because she wanted to, because she _liked it._ She doesn’t even know his name.

He shifts, easing off her a bit, the expression on his face dazed and maybe a bit sheepish. She slides her hand out from between her legs and puts her fingers up to his lips and he licks them eagerly, seemingly as uncaring as she is about how dirty they might be, and then he kisses her, soft and deep and slow.

She wishes, suddenly, that they had met somewhere different, somewhere safe, where they had all the time in the world to explore each other. As if any place like that existed anymore.

The wind gusts and she realizes her bare legs are freezing.

She nudges him to slide off her, both of them wary of the sticky spot on the blanket. He flexes his braced knee with a wry grimace. She reaches for the least sandy corner of the rumpled blanket to wipe herself clean.

“Mm. Don’t think I, uh, got any inside you,” he mutters, avoiding her gaze while he fastens up his pants.

She shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”

He helps her tug her trousers back up over her hips, and she tries not to linger on the way his thumb strokes over the skin of her belly before she buttons up. He is still avoiding her gaze.

Now that the buzz of pleasure has faded, she’s feeling heavy and slow—maybe even calm enough to sleep for a few hours before dawn.

“I’m going to sleep in the Rig,” she says once she’s gotten to her feet and brushed the worst of the sand off. “Can join if you want.”

“Mm…fine out here…”

“It’s cold, Fool.”

His face is mostly in shadow from this angle but she thinks she sees a twitch of a smile.

They climb up into the cab of the Rig as quietly as possible. He slips instinctively into the corner of the back seat on the side that still has a door, his back as covered as possible. It takes a few tries for her to arrange herself against his shoulder in a way they’re both comfortable with—some unknown object keeps poking her from inside his jacket, and he’s strangely skittish about putting his arm around her back given that he was balls deep inside her just minutes ago. Finally they settle into as acceptable a position as they’re going to find and she tugs the blanket up over both of them, arranging it so the sticky spot doesn’t touch any of their clothes.

The feeling of wanting to crawl inside his skin from before is sated now, but he’s still warm as a V8 fresh off the road, and being close to him is nice in a way she hasn’t felt in an achingly long time. She tucks her head against his shoulder and lets her eyes drift closed.

 

He doesn’t sleep.

He sits rigidly still against the corner of the cab as Furiosa falls asleep against him, the coiled steel of her body going slack and unguarded. She’d given him the sequence to start the Rig when he had a gun pointed at her, fought beside him for two days and a night, and somehow the simple trust of her head against his shoulder is far more terrifying.

He can still taste the wetness he’d licked from her fingers in the corners of his mouth. He’d been blindsided by how much he’d suddenly wanted her once she was pressed up against him. It had been ages, _ages_ since he’d wanted anyone like that. Now guilt curdles in his stomach—for letting dumb animal lust drag him along, for sharing her warmth in the Rig right now when they both know he is leaving in the morning. Half his instincts are clawing at his insides to go right now, run, leave, just take a bike and fang it out into the desert. But…Furiosa is asleep on his shoulder and he hasn’t seen her sleep a wink in the past thirty-six hours and they have a long ride ahead of them tomorrow.

The worst part, the very worst part, was that it had been _easy,_ falling into her and making her feel good and letting himself feel good too. Far too easy to take something he didn’t deserve and wouldn’t get to have again. Far too easy now to replay in his head the sounds she made when she climaxed, wonder what it would be like to get his mouth on her, if she would like that, to get his fingers inside her when they weren’t crusted with wasteland grime, make her come somewhere where she didn’t have to hide her face in his jacket to keep quiet—

 _Stop it._ He is leaving them all in the morning; he knows it in his core, and thoughts like this are useless.

It only occurs to him then that she hadn’t asked him again to stay, hadn’t assumed he would change his mind because they’d fucked. She’d accepted his reflexive answer with a simple nod, even though he was a valuable asset, he was taking scarce resources, and they’d all have a better chance together. She hadn’t been able to completely hide the disappointment on her face, but she hadn’t pressed him and hadn’t asked again.

Why does that make him feel like even more of a coward?

 

When she wakes up at dawn she’s lying flat on the seat, her cheek against the leather and her feet up. She can’t remember changing positions, but when she sits up she realizes someone has tucked the blanket neatly around her.

Her first thought is that he is gone. But no—he’s over by the campfire, accepting a cup of tea from Annie, warming his hands against it in the morning chill.

There’s a dull ache between her legs, she realizes when she swings her feet off the seat. In the morning light the dried stain on the blanket is glaringly obvious. She folds it up before she climbs out of the Rig.

She is quite sure their sleeping arrangements have not gone unnoticed, not by her sharp-eyed Mothers. But no one remarks upon it.

 

There’s an ache of an entirely different kind under her diaphragm as they load up the bikes, stripping anything light enough and useful enough from the Rig.

She finds the black scarf among the salvage he brought back from the attack on the Bullet Farmer’s crew. Of course it means nothing to him—not a mark of rank, just something to gather up a switchblade, a compass and a collection of half-empty ammunition boxes in.

It has hardly any blood on it, and a day’s worth of driving through the wasteland has cleared out the stink of Bullet Farm sulfur and iron. On impulse she unwinds her own scarf from her neck and replaces it with the dead Bullet Farm Imperator’s one.

 

The bikes are loaded; there is no point in delaying any further.

There is a moment when there should be goodbyes, but she isn’t any good at that and she suspects he isn’t either. Before she can talk herself out of such a sentimental gesture she presses her scarf into his hands with a muttered, “For the dust.”

There’s a flicker of…something on his face, a lick of his lips and a twitch of his fingers into the cloth that she notices far too acutely. Around them bike engines are starting up, loud enough that she’s the only one who hears his quiet, “Good luck,” and he’s the only one who hears, “You too.”

She doesn’t look back at him, not once, as she does the final checks of weapons and supplies and swings onto her bike. She has the self-discipline for that, at least.

She fangs it down the dune and out onto the salt.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](http://fuckyeahisawthat.tumblr.com)


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